It came to pass that in my twilight years, I found myself alone—not by choice nor cruel fate, but because my daughter-in-law, the very one I once welcomed into my home, cast me out like a worn-out relic. Now I dwell in a rickety, half-ruined cottage in a forgotten village, without plumbing, heating only by a stove I must feed each dawn, with an outhouse and water fetched in buckets from the well. All I once possessed now belongs to her.
My name is Margaret Whitaker. I hail from York. My son, Thomas, is two-and-thirty. He wed five years ago—a union I thought born of blindness. He brought into our home a lass named Alice, a girl from the south with neither home nor trade, nor a shred of shame. Thomas was bewitched; I, from the first, wary. But I held my tongue. I hoped it would pass.
After the wedding, we lived as three in my modest flat. I gave them the larger room and took the cramped bedroom, barely space to turn. Within months, Alice announced she was with child—far along, in fact. A curious thing, for Thomas had known her but a month before the babe was conceived. I counted the days. The sums did not add.
“Born early,” she declared.
“Early? A babe full-weight, hale, without a hint of prematurity?”
I said nothing. Thomas believed her. I did not. Even then, I sensed the child was not his. But what proof had I, when my son was blind to all but her?
At first, she played the dutiful wife—scrubbed floors, cooked meals. Then she ceased. The burden fell to me alone. Then came the final blow. Alice demanded my pension be turned over to their “common purse.” No shame, no pretense—blunt as a hammer.
“And what do *you* contribute, Alice?” I asked. “Not a day’s work before or after this marriage!”
Thomas took her side. He insisted I account for every penny spent on myself. Clearly, Alice had schooled him well—she knew every stipend, every pension, every pence I received. I could not so much as buy medicine without enduring a lecture.
My patience snapped. I bought a small icebox for my room, refused to pay their way, divided the household bills. I owed no duty to feed a sluggard and her child. None—full stop.
Then Alice saw she could not force me out so easily. One day, in my absence, she ransacked my papers. She found the deeds to the flat—with a twist. After my divorce from Thomas’s father, I bought out his share but placed the flat in my son’s name. At the time, it seemed right—he was my only child, after all…
Alice was jubilant. She threatened me:
“Clear out! You’ve no claim here! Whisper a word to Thomas, and I’ll divorce him and take half. Then you’ll *both* be in the gutter!”
What could I say? I knew my son was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I would not tear him apart. I packed my things and left for my parents’ old cottage in the countryside—a place bought long ago with my former husband, never finished. Now I live in this forsaken corner of the world, where winter bites and summer’s lonely chimney smoke is the only sign I exist.
I told Thomas I sought quiet, peace, the countryside. He suspected nothing. Alice was glad—one less mouth to fret over. He visits seldom. The first year, he came twice. Now, not a word. And I know—she will not allow it.
My only regret? That I did not keep the flat in my name. That I trusted my son’s love and his wife’s decency. Now I am alone—roofless, family-less, hopeless. Old age, meant for comfort, is mere survival.
So it was that a stranger in my house took all—my home, my son, my dignity. Now each night I pray Thomas wakes. That he sees what he’s chosen. But I fear—it will be too late.
